


Too Much, Too Late

by UntilTomorrow



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), The Necessary Death of Charlie Countryman
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Comforting!Gabi, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort-Relationship, Illnesses, Late at Night, Nausea, Pre-Movie(s), Sickfic, Sickness, Vomiting, Vulnerability, Vulnerable!Nigel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4892569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UntilTomorrow/pseuds/UntilTomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's becoming harder for Gabi to pretend that she married a good man. Nigel loves her deeply; but he is what he is, and does what he does. When Nigel becomes ill one night and is in need of comfort, Gabi finds herself remembering why she fell in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much, Too Late

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TaeAelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaeAelin/gifts).



It was late, it was hot, and she was alone. Another few hours and it wouldn't be unfair to start playing. But mostly she just wanted to sleep. It wasn't that she couldn't be without Nigel, she'd gotten used to pretending she didn't miss him. But it was in that same silence that she couldn't always pretend he'd come back. That one day his work wouldn’t take him under, some back alley, bridge or moonlit river. A silencer and a usurper, as was ever the way with such men. Or so it was in the films. What did she know? When she'd first seen the scar she assumed he'd been in some war, or a rough childhood. Well maybe he had. Maybe he did. But what he was now was something quite different, and nothing that happened before nor after would ever be a good enough excuse. Not for him. Not for her.

He clicked the lock back quietly. It was the precisely the sound that never failed to unnerve her, that moment just before she could be sure it was him. But there was no mistaking the care with which he slipped into the hallway, making every effort not to wake her. When he saw her tucked up in the corner of the lounge, his face creased with a sort of fondness, or some memory of it.

"I'm sorry, gorgeous." His voice was a husky whisper. He tried, unsuccessfully, to clear his throat. "Had a bit of a rough night. But still, I was gone far too long."

It was a relief, seeing him, followed by the inevitable wave of exhaustion as the adrenaline drained from her system. And the bitter aftertaste, as her mind wandered over what a rough night for him might entail for someone else. In all likelihood, a short one. She patted the undisturbed volume at her side. "It's nothing. I was reading."

He gave a wary nod, his posture caving a little when she didn’t return his smile. In truth, he looked like he could've used one. He hadn’t seemed well when he’d packed his briefcase several hours earlier, all the worse now standing empty handed. Whatever invisible gain had replaced it played on her mind more than the shadows angling beneath his lids, the wash of his hair across his brow.

Drawing up an arm, he gave a heavy flinch of his cuff beneath his nose, sniffling deeply when this failed to fix anything. He stepped toward her, then seemed to think better of it, running his hands over the rest of the shirt. It looked wet- splattered even, from where she was. Darker than before. But maybe that was just the light.

"One moment, darling. Let me just get out of this."

She heard him rustling around in the bedroom, coughing all the while. She didn’t wait for him to come back. Leaning in the doorway, she watched with bleak curiosity as he stripped off the shirt, scrunched it into a ball, tied it in a plastic bag, and headed for the kitchen trashcan instead of the laundry room. She peeled back the bedcovers, hemming her legs beneath the stiff pull of the cotton. Her morning toast scraps could find their way into the sink disposal unit instead then. That lid was staying closed.

It was with unexpected softness that he finally curled up next to her. He was usually sparing- cagey, almost, after a shirt-in-the-bin kind of night. She guessed that wasn't such a bad thing, not being able to deal love and death in the same hand. But his tentative arm round her torso, his face near grazing her shoulder as he tried to get comfortable- these were the echoes of some far darker round. Something he hadn’t done before. Something gone wrong, perhaps. Or worse, something he regretted. It was a feeling she knew all too well.

She very nearly returned the gesture. How often she had woven her thin fingers through the coarser clasp of his own, felt him fold beneath her slightest touch. In some ways he was a ruthless man, driven by hunger and intent. But his devotion to her was ruthless too. Sure as she knew he was willing to kill- for money, for power, for convenience even- she was just as certain he wouldn't think twice about dying. But only for her.

His heat soaked through the thin trousers and sweatshirt. He rarely took anything for a fever, and if he did, it was only because she suggested it. Across his pillow, she could just make out the alarm clock beneath the shallow filter of the blinds. Another hour. Then she'd get up. He took a breath, clearly on the edge of saying something. She stilled, waiting to hear it. It was as close as he ever came.

He shuffled a fraction nearer, nudging his head onto her upper arm. He was twitchy, each inhale catching against his throat. No amount of swallowing seemed to amend it, and he gave up after a while, letting his lips fall slightly ajar as exhaustion crept in. She could move after he drifted off.

To her surprise, ten minutes hadn't passed before she was the one stirring. Had she really fallen asleep that easily? Nigel was sitting up, heavy and off-kilter. He gave an apologetic smile as she pulled herself upright too. He might have looked pale, but it was hard to be sure. She stretched her fingertips toward the bedside lamp, but he stopped her with a gentle touch to her wrist.

"It's alright, gorgeous. Back in a bit."

He untangled himself from the sheets, walking from the room as if with some urgency. She leant her back against the headboard, pulling her knees loosely up to her chest. She supposed he was getting a drink of water. It gave her a small pang of guilt- she might have brought one earlier. He clearly wasn't himself. When he got back, she'd at least offer a kind word. Which wasn't even an inch of what he would have done for her.

He didn't return. Raking her hair back behind her ears, she pulled a pair of socks from her bedside drawer, feeling somewhat cooler despite the tepid air. Padding down the hallway after him, she found the kitchen deserted, light pooling beneath the guest bathroom door instead. It sounded like the water had been left running. Confused, she gave a light knock.

"Nigel?" she tried not to sound annoyed. Why hadn't he just used the ensuite? "Are you alright?"

He didn't answer. Perhaps he was having a shower then. She left him to it. Maybe that book wasn't such a bad idea after all. It wasn't until she was almost back inside the bedroom that she heard an uneasily desperate sound, and stopped in her tracks. Was Nigel being _sick?_

The thought was so incongruous, so unexpected, that she hardly believed it was even possible. Throughout their wild courtship, illicit substances and all, she had never so much as seen him with a hangover, let alone ill to his stomach. The thought of it prickled in her chest, and she suddenly felt a good deal worse about having left him on his own. Abandoning the novel, she found herself at the bathroom door a lot quicker than she had left it.

"Nigel?"

When he gave no response, she softly turned the handle, not expecting to find it unlocked. Peeking in, she saw him slouched on his knees next to the bidet, hands trembling as he clutched the wall for support. He looked up at her, somewhat dazed, then wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist.

"You may not want to get too close."

She hadn't thought his voice could get any hoarser, but he sounded as if he'd been yelling for days. Under the less forgiving fluorescents, the swell beneath his eyes looked almost palpable, his whole face slick with perspiration.

"Oh, sweetheart..."

She didn't know where the name had come from, to her he had always just been Nigel. But there she was, kneeling on the cold floor next to him, pulling his head against her shoulder as if she'd never get to hold him again.

"Hey-" he gave a croaky laugh, a cut of affection beneath the wince. "Not too tight..."

She eased her grip, running a hand gently over his abdomen. He gave a weak smile, then drooped back into her, wiping his nose on her shirt on the way. She was torn on whether to get him some aspirin, or if that might make things worse. He gave a low groan.

"I don't even think I'm done yet."

She smoothed her opposite palm between his shoulder blades as his breathing deepened, letting him lean on her for support. His mouth curved to a grimace, and he shuddered as the wave of nausea receded.

"This feels fucking terrible."

She gave a murmur of sympathy, rubbing slow circles down his back while he gave the occasional involuntary jerk. When the spasms faded to nothing, she drew herself back, caging his cheek in her hand.

"Let's get you back to bed."

He nodded, shaky as she helped him to his feet. Almost an afterthought, he realised the sink taps were still running. Turning around, he cupped both palms beneath the water and leaned down, splashing his face. Her heart squeezed beneath her ribcage as she realised he'd probably tried to spare her the discomfort of hearing anything.

Gathering a fresh towel from the rack, she saw him suddenly grip the side of the sink with both hands, throwing himself into the basin. He retched, his legs near giving way beneath him as his balance failed. Dropping the towel where she stood, she stepped forward to catch him with both arms round his waist, steadying him from behind. He vomited again into the stream of water. Despite the volume of it, she could hardly tell the difference between the liquids, he seemed not to have eaten all day. His body seized under her as he coughed, and she leaned softly into his spine.

"I'm here, I'm here, I've got you."

He collapsed over the stone bowl as another surge followed, gasping for air in the aftermath. She kept hold while he shivered violently, hesitant to pull his head back from the vanity. When his stomach muscles were no longer contracting against her arms, she moved round to his side. With a low hushing sound, she gently brushed away the leak of spit that hung from his mouth. He gave her a pained look, his face crumpling before he turned aside.

"I miss you so fucking much, Gabi."

There was a rawness to his tone that the hard echo of the bathroom could hardly disguise. He rarely used her given name, and it scraped in his throat with an honesty that left her wounded.

Wrestling his arm over her shoulders, her vision blurred out of focus, and she helped him down the hall with as much stoicism as she could muster. Which wasn’t much. It wasn't until they were halfway through the living room that she thought to go back for some towels, leaving him braced against the couch. He looked bewildered when she returned with them, his face still a ruin of some strangled feeling. Her heart threatened to break.

"Just in case you're really not done."

He gave a limp nod, easing himself down into the middle of the cushions like every muscle in his body was bruised.

She wavered, then made her way over. She sat down carefully beside him, mindful not to jog the seat too much. "What's this?"

"Hm?" he nuzzled into her arm, taking a moment to understand. "Ah. You know."

She did, but she wanted him to say it out loud. She needed him to be able to.

"I'm poor nighttime company as it is, hardly better being sick everywhere."

It was with selfless grace that he managed to tell her he knew. He knew she loved him less. And it wasn't until she heard it that she realised he was so, so very wrong.

"Nigel." She tried to be light, her voice cracking under the weight of it. "If you don't get back to bed in the next thirty seconds, I'm either going to have to carry you, or set up shop next to this couch, towels and all."

He glanced up at her, leaky and surprised, then warmed into that slow, crooked smile that he seemed to save just for her. The one that made her heart stop and spin at the same time. The one that she hated. The one she couldn't let go.


End file.
